


Good boy

by Akikofuma



Series: Rose Thorns & Melodies [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood and Injury, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Depression, Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dubious Consent, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt learns how to use his words, Kink Enabler Eskel, Learning proper aftercare, M/M, Past Valdo/Jaskier, Physical Abuse, Praise Kink, Reunions, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Loathing, Sub Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27888148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akikofuma/pseuds/Akikofuma
Summary: It had all clicked into place.That look Geralt had given him was disappointment. He hadn’t been with Yennefer for a while now, had wanted Jaskier to distract himself, but by now knew better.Because Jaskier couldn’t be a good boy anymore, no matter how hard he tried, just as Valdo had told him, all those years ago.So he’d done the only other thing he could, aside of failing.He’d run away._____
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx
Series: Rose Thorns & Melodies [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914817
Comments: 75
Kudos: 426





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier was exhausted.

He had no reason to be. Winter was upon them, and he was tucked away, warm and fed. Had found another noble in needs of his musical talents (among others), and in return they provided him with all the comforts and luxuries he could ever dream about.

And yet; it was all he could do to push himself out of bed when he was called upon. To sit in the hot water filling the stone tub set into the ground, smelling of all the flower oils his heart had ever desired, without slumping far enough to dunk his head beneath the surface and stay there.

When he sang and danced at a ball, or fucked the countess into her bed, his mask was firmly in place. He laughed and joked; winked at noblewomen throughout his performance. Fucked the one in his bed with put upon enthusiasm.

Then, when it was all over, he’d barely make it back to his rooms before he collapsed into the bed, tears stinging his eyes. Would lay there for hours, trying his best to sleep, only to regret it when he woke up, mind filled with dreams about the man he could never have. Not really.

He might have Geralt’s body, perhaps even some small part of the Witchers heart. Geralt did care for him, but not the way Jaskier cared for the white wolf. The knowledge that the spiteful sorceress held the man’s heart and always would was a seed of bitterness that had grown to infest the bards entire body.

He was so. Fucking. Tired.

Why did he keep doing this to himself? Running after Geralt with no chance of ever getting what he was dying to have. Allowing the man to hold him, fuck him, to turn his life upside down. Geralt had the ability to take the world around him away, center his mind on the Witcher and nothing else. For whatever time they spent together, wrapped up in one another, nothing else mattered but Geralt. Pleasing him, obeying him.

Submitting to the Witcher in any way possible. Physically, emotionally, it didn’t matter.

Geralt was his anchor in the storm, in those moments.

Outside of the Witchers bed, Jaskier was expected to perform like on stage. To know exactly what his partner wanted, to read them like he read a crowd, and give them exactly what they wanted. And while he prided himself on being capable of reading people (Witchers not included), as well as being an amazing lover; at times, it was too much.

Geralt wanted none of that.

No pretty lies, no performance. Just Jaskier, as he was. His noises, his pleasure; his enthusiastic obedience. The poet thrived on doing well, on being praised, and what boggled his mind is that, on those nights, Geralt would give it freely. No grunting, no insults or mockery. They _connected_ , if just for a few hours, in a way he’d never experienced before.

Jaskier wanted to drown himself in it, to limit his life to those hours. To never again have to see the harsh light of day; experience how Geralt would change, cut whatever bond had tied them together the prior night like it had never been there to begin with.

The bard would spend his days longing for the next time Geralt came into his bed, until the tender hands and sweet whispers returned. He loved the Witcher as a friend, he _did_. Enjoyed his surly demeanor, the way Geralt thought about every word he said carefully. Their travels, and the things he got to witness because of them, delighted him.

Still, the harsh words the white wolf would throw his way, they hurt. Burnt into his skin, his mind, especially on the days following their nightly activities. He’d play off the pain, pretend he didn’t hear, or didn’t care. He’d quickly learned that trying to communicate with Geralt about feelings was a sure fire way to be left behind at the next available village.

So Jaskier chose to bury them deep, the slights and insults, rather that losing the Witchers company. They sat like stones in his chest; at first a barely noticeable weight, easy to ignore, smitten as he was.

As the years passed by, more stones had been added, more hurts. He’d done his best not to think about them, to ever acknowledge how heavy they’d become. How much they weighed him down.

Then Geralt had offered him a massage, and the boulder in his chest had been too much to ignore.

Seeing pity in the Witchers eyes had to be the worst thing Jaskier ever experienced.

For that’s what it had to be.

Geralt had never offered anything even close to that ever before. He’d never seen the poet fall apart as he had that night, when the darkness in his mind had swallowed him whole and refused to let go. He still couldn’t quite remember what had transpired that night, but he could imagine. It wasn’t the first time he’d been bad.

There had been one man before Geralt that he’d been with in this way.

Valdo Marxs had been charming, intelligent, and a few years older than Jaskier. Handsome and charismatic, it hadn’t taken long to lure the brunette in. Valdo had introduced him to a lot of things, mostly sexual ones, and they had been quite happy. For a while.

The other bard had started to become more demanding of Jaskier. Spent their nights ordering him around, tying him up. Gave him rules to follow, and punishment when Jaskier failed to obey. At first, he hadn’t minded any of it. It was thrilling, this dynamic; he’d fallen in love with it as much as he had with Valdo, possibly more.

Being good was like a drug to Jaskier. The praise he received when he managed to hold still, or stave off his orgasm until he was allowed to come clouded his mind like the sweetest red wine, leaving him boneless. He’d drift and wake up to warm arms holding him.

That’s when it all seemed to go wrong.

Jaskier had become more popular that his senior, more accomplished in his studies. Valdo was no longer the school’s star, as he had been for many years, once Jaskier arrived. The teachers praised his feeling for music, his unfailing ability to instantly recognize a pitch, or come up with a second melody to compliment the first. He had a natural talent with instruments, quickly picking up on how to play whatever was put into his hands.

As Valdo’s star set, and Jaskier’s rose, their relationship changed.

The older man became harsher, in his demands, and his punishments. He’d give the bard orders he desperately tried to obey; not to come during their play when Valdo knew he hadn’t a chance of holding it. Perhaps it had been a stressful week at the academy, and Jaskier simply hadn’t had the time to pleasure himself; or Valdo himself had ordered him not to come. The man would tease and prod at Jaskier, for hours if necessary, until eventually, he failed.

Then Valdo would punish him.

At first, the punishments had been almost as pleasurable as the rest. Valdo would be firm, but still affectionate. If he spanked Jaskier, he’d rub soothing ointment onto his abused skin. He’d encourage him to learn his lesson, but he never outright hurt him. The pain had been pleasurable, even then.

As time went on, that pleasure disappeared.

Valdo took to spanking him with paddles, until his ass was bruised a dark purple, and sitting on any surface was agony. No more whispered promises that he was still good, taking his punishment well. No ointment rubbed against his skin. He wouldn’t even hold Jaskier anymore, after.

Then came the incident that had broke them apart. Because Jaskier had been bad.

He’d failed, _again_.

Had let himself come even though he knew better. So what if Valdo hadn’t let him come in a fortnight, but used Jaskier for his pleasure every night, the pressure in the brunette’s balls building and building. So what if Valdo had been fingering him for the better part of the night, pushing against his prostate with more and more (and moremoremoremore) pressure.

He should have been good, and waited. No matter how desperate he was, how much his cock and balls hurt, how much he wanted to scream for it to stop.

He’d been bad, and failed the one he loved.

“ _On your hands and knee’s.”_ Valdo had ordered, disappointment and displeasure dripping with each word. “ _Time to teach you a lesson._ ”

Jaskier had been so desperate to make up for his mistakes, he hadn’t protested the flogger that suddenly appeared in Valdos hand. He could take the paddle, surely he could take this as well. He had to.

Had to be good.

So he’d tried to stay still, because Valdo liked when he did.

Tried to keep the sounds of anguish from escaping his lips, because Valdo always wanted him to take his punishments silently.

Tried to handle the stinging pain of welts appearing on his back, his ass, the back of his thighs.

Each time thinking ‘ _Just one more, and he’ll stop. One more, and I’ll learn, and he’ll be happy, and I’ll be good again.’_ Each time being proven wrong as more strikes followed. He could feel the welts breaking open, the almost tickling sensation of blood seeping from them. 

He’d held on as long as he could.

Finally, after his entire back was on fire from shoulders to the back of his knees, when he couldn’t hold in the screams of agony he’d attempted to muffle into his pillows, he’d cried out for Valdo to stop.

“ _Stop! Valdo stop, you’re hurting me, oh gods-”_

“ _Weak.” the man spat, grabbing Jaskier by the back of his neck, forcing his face into the pillow. “You can’t follow orders, and then you fail at taking the punishment you deserved.”_

“ _I’m sorry.”_ _t_ _he brunette mewled, shaking so hard he feared his bones m_ _ight_ _shake apart too. “I’m sorry Valdo, I tried to be good, but it hurts, it hurts so much..”_

“ _Good?” the older man snorted, shaking his head. “You haven’t been good in so long,Julian, I think you’ve forgotten what the word even means. I don’t think you can be good anymore.”_

“ _No!” Jaskier sobbed, struggling to turn around, his injuries be damned. “No, I can still be good Valdo, please, please let me try.”_

“ _You want another chance?” the man considered, humming to himself._

“ _Please.” the younger bard begged, sniffling. “Please let me be good.”_

“ _Then hold still, Julian. Not a sound, do you understand? A single one, and we’re done here.”_

“ _Yes, I understand, I’ll be good.” Jaskier promised, desperate for Valdos approval. “I’ll be good.”_

Valdo had fucked him after that, rough and hard, thumbs digging into the welts at Jaskiers hips, and again, the brunette had failed. It had been too painful, the rough pounding with too little oil  and not enough prep , combined  with the pressure of the wounds on his back, for the young man to take.

Valdo had left him in his bed, much like Jaskier had found himself years later, after Geralt had left to meet his sorceress. Bruised and bloodied, sore and hurting.

That night, however, he’d been good. Had kept his mouth shut and the pathetic little whimpers threatening to break free never escaped him. He’d taken his punishment like a good boy. Hadn’t cried himself to sleep for the next few weeks like he had after Valdo, begging the older man to take him back whenever they were alone.

By the end of it, Geralt had come back.

Maybe, he thought, if he just took his punishment like a good boy, then Geralt would always come back to him.

The days before the breakdown, Geralt had been even more silent then usual. This punishment Jaskier knew well. The Witcher would go days without a real word between the two of them.

Jaskier must have been bad somehow, the last time they laid together. Had he come too soon? Fallen asleep too quickly? The bard wracked his brain for an order he hadn’t obeyed, for a sound the Witcher had found displeasing. He came up empty.

But still, there  _had_ to be a reason. Why else would he be punished?

So Jaskier had walked beside Roach, doing his best not to annoy Geralt, be it with chatter or music. Until Geralt had stopped in the middle of the dirt road.

It all became fuzzy after that.

The next clear memory he had was waking to the smell of food, Geralt at his side, with his foot bandaged up tight. Any apology he’d tried to offer was quickly dismissed by the white wolf. He was told to eat, and to rest his foot.

When he asked what Geralt intended to do, the Witcher revealed that he’d take the contract they’d been heading towards the following day, then return to Jaskier’s side. Muttered about having to wait until Jaskier healed before traveling again.

The poet should have known then, that they were doomed. That he’d ended another relationship because he was weak. Geralt had left him behind before, why wouldn’t he do so then? He’d made sure Jaskier was taken care of, had food and a place to sleep, and a healer to check on him.

It had been the first signs of the pity the Witcher now regarded Jaskier with.

Would go easy on him because he was pathetic, and weak, and even with a man as generous and kind as Geralt, he couldn’t be a good boy.

The Witcher had stopped touching him all together; reaching out but pulling away not a second later. Knowing that Jaskier couldn’t give him what he wanted; he’d proven it plenty after all.

Sometimes, he’d catch Geralt looking at him with a funny expression, something akin to pain. No matter how good he tried to be to the Witcher, how desperately he tried to make up for his mistakes and please the man, he’d never been rewarded with the affection, the bond he so craved.

And then, one night after a long performance, a bath was waiting for him. Geralt offered to rub his shoulders and back, like he did for the white wolf when he was allowed.

It had all clicked into place.

That look Geralt had given him was  _disappointment_ . He hadn’t been with Yennefer for a while now, had wanted Jaskier to distract himself, but by now knew better. 

Because Jaskier couldn’t be a good boy anymore, no matter how hard he tried, just as Valdo had told him, all those years ago.

So he’d done the only other thing he could, aside of failing.

He’d run away.

Put as much distance between them as was humanly possible, knowing that Geralt had no time to follow him if he wanted to make it to Kaer Morhen before winter set in.

Maybe, when spring came, Geralt would be ready to give Jaskier another chance, he’d thought.  Maybe he could find a way to please the Witcher again. He’d never be the one Geralt wanted, but he could be an adequate outlet for his urges until he met her again. 

He’d just have to try harder.

* * *

Spring came, and Jaskier no longer hoped that he could be what Geralt needed.

He spent most his time shut away in his rooms, attempting to come up with new songs to sing, new melodies to strum on his lute. The Countess was becoming bored with him, and the bard couldn’t blame her.

If he couldn’t even please her, how was he going to please Geralt? And if he couldn’t even earn his keep by singing for coin, creating new songs to entice the people, and he couldn’t fuck Geralt the way he liked, what real use did he have?

No. Jaskier refused to be another burden on those broad shoulders that already carried the weight of the world. It didn’t matter how much he wanted to see Geralt again, how he burned with the desire to be the Witcher’s good boy; he’d had his chance, and he’d failed.

Usually, they’d meet a few weeks into spring; he knew Geralt preferred to go east after wintering at the keep, and would mold his travels to the Witchers preference. He’d travel for a few weeks, maybe a month, and there Geralt would be. Proud and strong, and so incredibly beautiful, it made the bards heart ache.

Not this years.

This year, Jaskier turned his back on the direction that would take him towards the man he loved, and chose the one that would widen the chasm between them. Each step making his legs feel heavier, his heart weaker. Fighting the urge to give in, to turn around and run himself ragged, until he saw those golden eyes that  had captured his  heart . 

He kept on.

Knowing that, at the very least, Geralt’s life would be better without him.

That, in the smallest of ways, he was being  _good_ .


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big shout out to my friends Lia and Leah, that spent the better part of two days coaching me through this chapter, and beta'ing <3 
> 
> And a thank you to all of you, for the kudos and comments <3 Much love guys!

The trek up to Kaer Morhen, even for Geralt, wasn’t an easy one.

Harsh winter winds slowed him down, hunting for food became harder as snow layered onto the ground. Roach, having gotten on in her years, needed more and more breaks each year that passed. Soon, he’d have to leave her with Vesemir, and find himself a younger mount.

This year, he’d barely noticed his travels.

All he could think about was Jaskier. Was the bard alright? Had he found a place for the winter? Was he hurt, hungry? What if the poet ‘dropped’, without anyone around to help him out of it? Geralt wasn’t good at it by any means, but even he had to be better than nothing.

The way the bard had practically fled from him was a weight in the Witcher’s stomach.

He should have followed the brunette, chased after him and stopped him before he wandered too far out of Geralts reach. Idiot that he was, he hadn’t.

By the time he’d realized his mistake, he’d already been more than halfway to the keep; going back would have meant wintering wherever Jaskier settled down, and as selfish as it was, Geralt needed time to clear his mind.

Things between them had to change, that much he was sure of. Jaskier was falling apart, slipping through Geralts calloused fingers.

The thought of losing the bard for good made the Witcher physically ill.

He longed to gather the bard in his arms, could tell him all the things the poet deserved to hear. How beautiful he was, how sweet. How much it meant to Geralt to return from a hunt to find a hot bath waiting for him, Jaskier giving him an affectionate smile; ready to tend to the Witchers every need. His songbird was thoughtful, considerate of everyone around him.

  
Yes, he liked to flaunt himself, be the center of attention when he performed. Absorbed praise and admiration the way the dried, cracked soil would absorb water after a drought.

But once Jaskier stepped off that stage, while still thriving on these things, he was looking after every person he encountered. Be it Roach, Geralt, or a small child in the village they were currently staying in. Once, Jaskier spent the better part of a day singing songs to a little boy he’d found crying; making up silly rhymes and grand stories to sooth the distraught child. Soon, he’d been surrounded by little ones, laughing with them in the sun.

Geralt would never admit it, but it was one of his fondest memories.

Unfortunately, Geralt lacked the social skills needed to convey all those things. Not to mention the much larger problem on his hand.

Yennefer.

Beautiful, strong willed, powerful. Determined to get whatever she desired, by force if necessary. Yen let nothing and no one stand in her way, least of all Geralt. He’d always had a weakness for strong women.

The sex between them had been a battle for dominance, each time they met. She’d been happy to shove Geralt around, keep him pressed against the mattress with the help of her magic.

A force to reckon with, inside the bedroom, and out of it.

Yet, when the fucking ended, so did, apparently, her interest. She’d go to sleep, without a moment wasted on physical contact (Geralt couldn’t blame her for that, considering he’d done much the same after their first tryst); in the morning, if she’d stayed for the night at all, she’d be gone.

It left the Witcher feeling empty, aching with the need to hold, to cherish. All she wanted from him was the rough sex, nothing more.

Jaskier reveled in the moments Geralt held him, basking in the afterglow; all soft sounds and languid movements as he curled around him. Even on the rare occasions the bard woke first, he didn’t crawl out of bed, simply waited for golden eyes to open, lips curled in an easy smile.

It had been Geralt that clambered out of bed first with a grunt, leaving Jaskier to follow him.

He wondered if the songbird felt the same way Geralt did when Yen left his bed the second they were finished, putting a frown on his face.

The more he thought about it, the more clear it became. Jaskier was the better choice for a companion, a lover. Where he had to fight Yen to gain the upper hand, the bard submitted to him without a second thought. Trusted Geralt to know how much he could take, to be rough, but never actually hurt him. Pliant and warm against the Witchers hand’s, Jaskier went where Geralt lead.

Where Yen left Geralt aching, Jaskier made him well cared for, even looked after. The little lark gave him exactly what he needed, even if the Witcher himself didn’t know what he needed.

Waking up to Jaskiers even breathing, his mop of brown hair tickling Geralts neck and jaw, warmed his chest in ways the Witcher rarely experienced otherwise.

So why, why was Geralt still inexplicably pulled towards Yen?

And more importantly; would he ever be able to resist that pull?

He had all winter to figure it out. Hopefully it would be enough time.

* * *

Geralt spent the first few weeks of winter doing chores, and brooding.

There were so many things to consider in his decision; too many for him to sort through.

Yen would live a much longer life than Jaskier. The bard would, eventually, succumb to age or injury. Their time together would be limited, where as Yen would likely outlive him.

Yen would never give him the affection Geralt so desperately craved, while Jaskier showered him in it.

She’d never trust him the way the poet did; be it about sex or life in general. Made it a habit to hide things from him, even read his mind instead of talking to him. Jaskier, to his knowledge, had never lied to Geralt. Not once.

Jaskier was willing to live a Witcher’s life, traveling for three seasons of the year across dusty roads, in bad weather or good. He complained, quite often in fact; but he’d stuck with Geralt whenever the Witcher let him. Was a true friend to him, even if Geralt had never admitted it.

But their relationship was also infinitely more complicated.

Geralt had witnessed what could go wrong, how much he could hurt Jaskier if he didn’t look after him. The day the bard had injured his foot had been proof of that. The bard, while usually quite hardy, could become fragile as a baby bird; so easy to crush between clumsy Witcher hands, leaving lifelong injuries behind in their wake.

He’d have to take the time to learn more about what made the bard’s mind turn to darkness, how to better see to the little lark’s needs after sharing a rough fuck. Would have to be willing to push himself into communicating better, into being more tender. Commit himself to proving to Jaskier that he _did_ care for him. Possibly for years to come, thanks to Geralt himself. How many times had he told the poet he was a burden, a hindrance? Slowing him down, annoying him with his chatter and his songs. 

Geralt had never known how deep those words cut the bard, until the day Jaskier had showed him. Begging Geralt not to be mad while cowering on the floor, offering him things that turned the Witcher’s stomach.

If Jaskier ever told him who had hurt him so, Geralt would make sure they never saw the light of day again.

All Yen wanted was sex. Simpler.

So here Geralt was, with a partner that gave all of himself, but needing all of Geralt in return on one hand; on the other a partner that wanted nothing, expected nothing from him but sex.

One that would die in a few decades, while the other would live for centuries.

A fucking nightmare.

“What crawled up your ass?” Geralt gave an annoyed huff, glaring at the one that had dared interrupt his thoughts. Lambert stood beside him, bottle in hand, no doubt filled with the questionable spirit the younger man liked to brew.

“Nothing,” Geralt grunted, turning back to stare into the flames. It was late, Eskel and Vesemir had both retired, leaving Geralt and Lambert alone in the main hall. They took their meals together here, spent the evenings bickering and drinking while playing gwent.

“Liar,” the young wolf snorted, settling back onto the bench across from Geralt, nothing but the wood table between them. “You’ve always been a grouchy, brooding dick, don’t get me wrong. But you’re being extra obnoxious about it this year. So what’s the deal? Did the witch dump you?” 

“Hm.” That would have certainly made things easier on Geralt; though it would cheapen his decision to be with Jaskier in turn. Hardly fair on the bard who had worked so hard for his attention.

“Spit it out, _white wolf,_ ” Lambert mocked, only narrowly avoiding a punch to the ear by filling Geralt’s cup. “I don’t think I can take another day of you wandering around the keep glowering like a gargoyle.” 

_Ah, to hell with it_ , Geralt decided, knocking back his drink in a single go; motioning to Lambert to fill it once more. 

“Yen and I are still a thing,” he rumbled, his gaze fixed on the flames. “But- Jaskier, the bard I mentioned-”

“You mean the bard you never shut up about,” Lambert snarked.

“- the bard I mentioned,” Geralt firmly repeated, eyes narrowing as he dared the young wolf to interrupt him again. When silence followed, he continued. “We’re also.. a thing.”

“Tell me you’re not complaining about having two regular lays Geralt, or I might have to cut you off for the rest of winter.”

“Not complaining about that,” the older man clarified, sighing. Of course Lambert would give him shit. Why had he ever decided to talk about this? But alas, in for a copper. “I- have to decide. Between them.”

“Why?” Lambert asked, brows furrowing in confusion.

“I just do.” Unwilling to elaborate, Geralt took another swig of spirit; enjoying the way it burnt as it went down, warming his belly.

“So, you’re having trouble deciding then,” Lambert hummed, sipping at his own drink. “Of course you’d find yourself in a shit situation like this. You’re somehow the luckiest and unluckiest man I’ve ever known.”

“What are you on about.” Geralt grunted, irritated by the statement.

“Lucky enough to find yourself with two people to fuck on the regular, but unlucky enough to get to keep them both,” the raven haired man elaborated, vaguely motioning with his hand. “Seems like an easy choice. The bard’s human. You’ll lose him long before you’re ready to. With how much you go on about him annoying you, how much you hate his songs, yadda yadda. Seriously, do you have _any_ idea how much you complain about him? ‘Jaskier did something stupid again’, ‘Jaskier almost got us both killed’. Sounds like an idiot to me, how is this a hard to decide? Yen might be a bitch, but she’s a smart one at least.”

“He isn’t an idiot,” Geralt growled, flashing Lambert a dangerous glare. “He’s smarter than people- than _I_ \- give him credit for.”

“Alright, not an idiot then,” Lambert amended, only to continue on in his quest to annoy Geralt into punching him in the throat. “Wasn’t he a slut? You went on and _on_ about how many people he fucks, how much trouble that got him in. ‘Thinks more with his cock than his head’, wasn’t that what you said?” 

“Why wouldn’t he fuck others?” the white wolf countered, frowning hard. “We never agreed to be exclusive. Yen fucks other men.” 

“So it wouldn’t bother you if he kept bedding others? If you broke it off with the witch.” 

G eralt needed a moment to consider that. If he and Jaskier ended up being together,  would he want his bard in anothers bed? Would  _Jaskier_ want to bed others? 

No, he quickly decided. He wouldn’t want to share, and he didn’t think he’d have to. The way Jaskier looked at him when he didn’t think Geralt noticed told the Witcher his bard would need no other, if only he gave Jaskier what he needed.

“It would, but that wouldn’t be an issue,” Geralt replied evenly.

  
“It wouldn’t?” Lambert questioned. “You made him out to be the biggest slut on the continent. You sure he wouldn’t get some behind your back, while you’re on a contract? You know how humans are. One minute they treat you like you’re their friend, the next they’re stabbing you in the back. At least the bitch doesn’t pretend she’s anything she’s not.”

And that just took it a step too far for Geralt.

“Jaskier would never betray my trust,” he growled, lips curling back to show his fangs in his anger. “He’s a better man than most humans; he’s sure as fuck a better man than I am. Jaskier is kind, and good, and he deserves everything this shitshow of a continent can offer, and more. He may think with his cock too much, but that doesn’t make him any less of a loyal friend to me. So what if he enjoys fucking, who doesn’t? So don’t call him a slut. We’re no better, none of us is.”

He was breathing hard now; Lambert had succeeded in his plan. Geralt was pissed. The younger wolf, however, only grinned.

“What the fuck are you smiling at?!” Geralt barked, standing up so quickly, he almost knocked the table over in his fury.

“Just the fact that you’re pathetically oblivious,” Lambert hummed, seemingly unaffected by the white wolfs rage. “Did you notice that I insulted them both, but you only defended your little bard? Every valid point I brought up, you argued against. Look at you! You’re seconds away from punching me out, all because I insulted him. You think you’d ever do that for the witch? Raise your hand against a fellow wolf over a few petty insults?”

Geralt didn’t move, golden eyes narrowed at Lambert as he contemplated.

“Fuck.”

“Wasn’t a hard choice after all, was it?” Lambert hummed, a smug grin gracing his features. “You care for the bard more than you do her. So whatever hold she has on you, break it. After all, your little bard is running out of time rather quickly.”

Geralt swallowed hard, but finally knew one thing for certain.

He had tied Yen to himself with magic, long before he had a chance to have real feelings for her.

The bond he felt between him and the bard was based on decades of hard work, of building trust, and eventually, love.

His lark would never be abandoned for the sorceress again.

* * *

One problem solved, Geralt needed to try and solve the next.

He needed to find a way to give Jaskier exactly what he needed; and what exactly that was. The healer had given him a few pointers; Geralt knew what to do if Jaskier dropped again. But what could he do to avoid a drop in the first place?

In the middle of winter, there was no way Geralt could ride off and ask her. He could have waited to find out, of course. Travel to the village she lived in once he’d met up with Jaskier; maybe even ask her questions together.

But no, he had to be better than that. Had to show Jaskier that he could give whatever the bard needed.

Not to mention that Geralt could not stop obsessing even if he tried.

There were only few options available to Geralt.

Vesemir was a hard, immediate no. Geralt would rather throw himself out the highest window of the keep than discuss sex with the man that raised him.

Lambert might have the information he needed, but he’d never let Geralt live it down if he came to the youngest wolf for advice on sex.

That left only Eskel, arguably his best friend aside  from  Jaskier. He cared for Lambert just as much, but Eskel and he had a different bond. They survived the trials together,  were  the last of their class to survive.  Their relationship was just- different. 

S till, the conversation would definitely be awkward. Best to get it over with as quickly as possible.

He found Eskel in the library, bent over a book.

“Eskel,” Geralt grunted, muscles already tense with how uncomfortable he was. Golden eyes peered up at him, a black brow quirked. “Do you have a minute?”

“Always,” Eskel easily replied, gently closing the book he’d been reading, motioning for Geralt to sit beside him. “What’s this about?”

“Sex,” Geralt forced out before he could change his mind. _You’re doing this for Jaskier_ , he reminded himself. He could do anything for his bard. Eskel gave him a curious, slightly amused look; but didn’t speak just yet. “There’s this- thing. Don’t know what to call it.” 

“Well. What do you do?” Eskel questioned kindly, ever patient.

“Just rough sex. Tie him up sometimes, blindfold him,” Geralt muttered; if he could blush, his entire face would be bright red, he was sure of it. “Sometimes I make him- make him wait to come. Or the likes.”

At that, the other Witcher gave a hum.

“I think I know what you’re talking about.” That, at least, was encouraging. “Does he sometimes seem absent during, or after? Needs a lot of affection?” 

“Yes,” Geralt quickly nodded, eager to find out more. “I know that the mind can float, I know that it can drop. I know what to do when that happens, but I don’t- hm. I don’t know what I can do to make sure he doesn’t drop. What he needs me to do _after_ we fuck.” 

“Well,” Eskel smiled, not at all bothered by the topic of their conversation, easing the tension in the white wolfs shoulders. If Eskel could talk about this without shame, then so could he. “It depends on the person, I think. I don’t have much experience with this type of play, but I can tell you what it was like for me.”

“Please,” Geralt replied. He’d have to do something nice for Eskel to show just how grateful he was.

“When I was- what did you call it? Floating?” Startled for a second, Geralt nodded. He hadn’t expected Eskel to be the one that submitted. It could be a dangerous thing for a Witcher. How had Eskel found anyone he could trust enough? He’d have to ask later. “What I liked most was just being held, really. Tight enough to feel safe, but not crushed. If I was sore, he’d rub my arms and legs. Always made sure I had water, sometimes even food, if it was a longer session.” 

“That’s all?” Geralt frowned, confused. Could it be that easy? 

“For me, it usually is, yes,” Eskel agreed. “But as I said, it can be different for everyone. The person I- tried this with. He knew a lot more about it. We’d talk about it, from time to time. Some people need to be praised, others prefer to be left alone for a while.”

“How do you figure out what they need?” At this, Eskel gave him a fond, yet slightly worried, smile. 

“It won’t be easy for you, I’m afraid.” Of course it wouldn’t be. Geralt had already made peace with that. “You’ll need to talk to him about it. Ask him what he wants, what makes him feel good, and safe. Most importantly, what _doesn’t_. Open communication.” 

G eralt couldn’t stop the groan the information pulled from him; running a wide hand across his face. Of all the things, of course it was  _talking_ that needed to be done. 

“Geralt,” Geralt huffed, glancing at the other Witcher, indicating he was listening. Eskel’s tone had become serious. “This type of relationship, it isn’t often easy. It takes a lot of trust, but I assume you already have that. Aside of that, it needs a lot of work, and time. You can’t do this on a whim. Because if this goes wrong..” Eskel sighed. “..It tends to go _horribly_ wrong.” 

“What are you saying, Eskel?” Geralt quietly inquired. “Spit it out.”

“I’m saying, be careful Geralt. For your sake. And the sake of your bard.”

Surprised, Geralt furrowed his brows.

“I never said who it was.”

Eskel  simply gave a shrug, a knowing smile on his lips. 

* * *

Spring couldn’t come fast enough.

Geralt had spent the last few weeks of winter clawing at the walls, desperate for the snow to melt, to open the roads that would take him back to his bard.

He’d annoyed the fuck out of Lambert, while Eskel and Vesemir had regarded him with amused, patient smiles. When the ice and snow had finally cleared enough, Geralt and Roach were on the Path. He headed east, as he always did; passing through the same villages and cities he usually did.

Jaskier was nowhere to be found.

No one had heard his songs since long before winter.

Each time Geralt entered another tavern devoid of his bard, the dread in his chest swelled. He should have encountered Jaskier weeks ago. Now, there was no sign of the bard at all.

The more time passed, the more worried the Witcher became. Why hadn’t Jaskier come to him? Was he hurt? Ill? Had he gotten himself into enough trouble to be thrown into a cell somewhere?

Or even worse.

Had Jaskier finally decided Geralt wasn’t worth the trouble; maybe even found someone else, better suited to his needs?

The thought of his songbird in another’s bed  sent a wave of white hot jealousy through the Witchers entire body, large hands curling into fists. 

Jaskier belonged with  _him_ , not some noblemen that didn’t truly appreciate him, that treated him like a pretty accessory and whore, not a person. Geralt would fight tooth and nail to get his bard where he belonged, in the Witcher’s arms. 

He’d prove to the bard that he could treat him the way he should have all these years. That Geralt appreciated him, wanted him, would do anything it took to make his little lark happy.

If he had to compete for Jaskiers affection, it was only fair. How many years had Geralt forced the poet to do the same thanks to Geralts continued relationship with Yen?

It was chance alone that brought the Witcher back to the village of the healer that had helped him, all those months ago. The alderman had posted a contract for a few drowners that Geralt had overheard by chance in a tavern a few days ride away.

_Might as well speak to her_ , Geralt thought to himself. _The more I know, the better._

The contract came first, though. After spending a few hours tracking the beasts back to their nest, Geralt dispatched them quickly. Made his way back to the town covered in blood and mud, the head of one of the drowners securely tied to Roachs saddle.

The alderman looked rather horrified at the Witchers appearance, but Geralt wasn’t bothered. He had more important things to tend to.

Skipping even the bath he had waiting for him in his room, Geralt made straight for the healers hutch. As he knocked on the door, he realized he hadn’t even asked her name. Would she even let him in?

The door opened, but instead of the healer, he was faced with a stranger. Not much younger than the women he was seeking, but taller, with more severe features. She looked serious, almost grumpy.

“What do you want Witcher?” she asked briskly, arms crossed over her chest as she looked him over. “You don’t seem injured.”

“I’m not,” Geralt replied, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

“Then why are you here?” she asked, distrust plainly written on her face. Geralt remained silent. He couldn’t exactly explain to this woman he’d never met why he’d come looking for the healer when he wasn’t hurt.

“Let him in, love,” called a familiar voice. “He’s here to ask more questions.”

“This is him?” the stranger asked skeptically, but she stepped aside, allowing Geralt into the hut.

“Hello again, Witcher,” the healer greeted, a sanguine smile on her wrinkled face. “How has life treated you?”

“Geralt.” He offered, rather awkwardly. “My name’s Geralt. Of Rivia.”

“Well met, Geralt. My name is Margaret,” she motioned towards the taller woman, glancing at her lovingly. “My wife, Ella.”

“Well met,” Geralt grunted, nodding towards each of the women.

“Sit, Geralt. I assume you’re here for more advice about your bard?” The Witcher gave an awkward nod, moving towards the chair she’d indicated. “Dear heart, would you make us some tea?”

Ella didn’t seem exactly pleased with the request, but complied, leaving the two of them to talk as she busied herself with the task.

“Now, what can I do for you, Geralt?”

“You helped me before, with my bard. Was hoping you could do it again,” Geralt rumbled, carefully avoiding her knowing eyes. “I need to know- more.”

“Did he drop again?” She asked, regarding him carefully.

“No,” Geralt immediately replied, shaking his head. “I need to know how to make sure he doesn’t drop again. How to keep his mind from going to that dark place. I-” Geralt broke off, searching for the right words. “I want to give him what he needs, always. Before it gets that bad.”

Ella came over to them, offering Geralt a cup of steaming chamomile tea. The scent alone helped the Witcher relax; somewhere along the way, he’d started to associate with his bard.

“Thank you,” he grunted, carefully holding the cup between his hands.

“Thank you my love,” Margaret smiled, pressing a kiss to her wife’s cheek as Ella settled beside her. Geralt couldn’t help but be impressed by the way they moved around each other, the look in their eyes as they regarded their love.

“Now, Witcher.” Margaret turned her attention back to Geralt, now leaning against Ellas shoulder. “It’s different for everyone, I’m afraid. I can’t tell you for sure, I barely know your bard. I can only hazard a guess at what would be best for him. In the end, only he can tell you. However, there are a few basics I can share with you, if you can answer some questions for me.” 

“Fine,” Geralt agreed, if a bit hesitantly. Something told him he wouldn’t enjoy answering her questions, but. This was for Jaskier. He’d do anything for his songbird.

“When you lay with each other. What do you two do? Do you tie him?”

“Yes.”

“Make him wait to climax?”

“..Yes.”

“What else?” the woman inquired. “It’ll be much easier if you tell me than going through all the things I’ve heard people enjoy.”

“He likes when I hold him down. Sometimes we use blindfolds,” Geralt wanted nothing more than to get up and leave. He’d never spoken to anyone about this, yet here he was, talking about it to two strangers. “He likes when I make him come until he’s dry. He- likes when I praise him, I think. He likes when I mark him. Holding him hard enough to bruise, bite him hard enough to leave marks. When I- when I come on him.”

“I see,” Margaret nodded, taking a sip from her tea. “It seems to me that your bard just wants to belong. To please, and be loved as much as he loves you. The marks show he’s yours; the praise helps him feel worthy of you. He puts a lot of trust in you, you know this. Think about how vulnerable you would feel, relinquishing control that way. After that, what would you want?”

Geralt gave a grunt. He’d never considered being on the other side of things. What would he want?

“..Reassurance.” Geralt rumbled.

“Reassurance,” Margaret agreed, nodding her head in approval. “Now, think about a human body. Your time together can get quite intense. What could it need?”

“Hydration,” the Witcher replied, brows furrowed. “To be cleaned. Muscles might be sore, so a hot bath, or. A massage. Food, depending on how long its been since he last ate. Sleep.” 

“Yes, that’s good,” Margaret smiled, pleased. “At some point, you should definitely discuss this with him in detail, but for now, you have all the tools you need at your disposal. Take care of him. Show him how much you care for him, that you see and appreciate the trust he puts in you. Listen to him when he talks about his needs. Talk about things you want to try, before you try them. And, as an extra safeguard, many couples agree on a word they can use to stop whatever is happening.”

“A word?” he asked, confused.

“Yes,” the healer replied. “A word the two of you agree to before hand, that he can use when he’s feeling overwhelmed, or needs to stop. Something that wouldn’t come up during your usual sessions.”

G eralt considered all the information he’d been given, silently frowning at the wooden table he sat at. He even forgot, for a few seconds, that he wasn’t alone.

“Witcher,” Ella said, causing Geralt to lift his head to face her. “You don’t strike me as a talker; but let me assure you. Your relationship will only work if you communicate. Openly, and honestly. Maggie has told me about her encounter with you and your bard, and its plain to see that he has been badly hurt; but also that he must care for you very deeply. She gave you the knowledge you needed. Now I will ask you the question that needs to be asked.

Are you willing to put in all the work it will take to heal those wounds, even at the expense of your own comfort?”

Geralt didn’t hesitate for even a second.

“Yes,” he rumbled. “I’d do anything for him. Anything at all.”

Ella gave him an appraising look, lips pursed. Then, she finally nodded.

“Best go find him then. The two of you have a long way to go.”

* * *

It took Geralt until the beginning of summer to track Jaskier down. The Witcher had been going insane, spending day in and out looking for his songbird. Desperate to make up for all the hurt he’d caused, to set things right between them.

By the time he finally heard the familiar voice floating towards him from a tavern, Geralt felt ready to burst into the establishment, grab the bard by the arm, and drag him into a room. All these weeks, he’d been haunted by visions of Jaskier injured, or even worse, laying face down in the dirt somewhere, dead.

Thankfully, that had not been the case.

Jaskier was alive and healthy; he simply hadn’t traveled towards the Witcher in spring. Geralt decided not to think about that fact too much; he couldn’t blame Jaskier for finally deciding to avoid him.

Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, after tending to Roach at the stable, Geralt stepped into the tavern; golden eyes immediately seeking out the bright baby blues of his bard.

Jaskier looked mostly the same. Same blue eyes, same brown hair. Same flashy clothes. It took a moment to see the changes. The poet had dark circles under his eyes; had lost a bit of weight since they’d parted ways. The way he moved wasn’t as fluid, as effortless as it had been before.  He looked tired. 

The moment Jaskier saw him, the music stopped. They stood still, for a moment, simply taking the other in. Then, Jaskier turned back to the patrons, continued on as if nothing happened.

Geralt moved towards the bar, ordered himself a meal and an ale. He could wait until the bard had finished his set, earned his coin. He could be patient.

He’d just been served his dinner when Jaskier ended his performance with a long bow. Geralt immediately stood, pushing past the humans blocking his way to the bard. Jaskier was moving as quickly as he could, Geralt realized, towards the exit.

Running away once more.

This time, he knew better than to let him escape. Jaskier had barely made it out of the tavern before Geralt caught up to him, taking hold of the poets arm, stopping him in his tracks.

“Jaskier,” he rumbled, wishing desperately that the bard would turn and look at him. “We need to talk.”

“We don’t,” the bard replied, still facing away from the Witcher. “It’s better this way, Geralt. Let me go.”

“Please,” Geralt breathed, just loud enough for the bard to hear, though he did release him. “I just want to talk to you. Hear me out, songbird. If you want to leave after, I won’t stop you.”

“Don’t call me songbird,” Jaskier whispered, lowering his head. The scent of sorrow filled Geralts nostrils, burned against the back of his throat.

“Jaskier,” Geralt acquiesced. “Please hear me out.”

The poet was trembling before him;  Geralt could smell the anxiety, the pain Jaskier was feeling. He didn’t push him. If they were going to have a good relationship, he couldn’t force or bully his lark into listening. It had to be Jaskiers choice.

“..You’ll let me leave, once you’re done talking?” Jaskier asked, voice small. It broke Geralt’s heart.

“Yes. I swear it,” the Witcher replied earnestly. “Whatever you want, Jaskier. If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”

Slowly, the bard turned; finally facing Geralt. Blue eyes filled with so much sadness, it physically hurt.

“Alright.” The brunette quietly agreed. “I have a room. We can talk there.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, folks, lemme be honest here. I was planning to write something much smuttier for this chapter, but here we are. Heh. I stared the chapter, and I just couldn't find a way to work in sex smoothly. This felt too soft, too.. earnest a moment, to me. So here you are, more talking, more softness and fluff, but once again, no sex. I'm really sorry if that's what you were expecting :c 
> 
> Love, Akiko

They barely made it into the tavern when they were interrupted.

“Witcher,” the barman called out, nodding towards the meal Geralt had already completely forgotten about. “Yer food.” 

Geralt was about to tell the man to give it away when a small hand against his arm stopped him.

“Eat,” Jaskier muttered, eyes cast towards the ground. “I have a room, and I’d like a chance to freshen up.” 

Geralt wanted to refuse; what if the bard escaped while he was distracted? But then, Jaskier had never been a liar; well, he hadn’t lied to Geralt, anyway. He said he’d stay and hear the Witcher out. He had no reason to doubt him. 

With a curt nod, Geralt returned to his seat at the bar, forcing himself not to scarf it down like a starved wolf. Jaskier would be upstairs when he was finished, he wasn’t running. Just wanted a chance to rid himself of the sweat on his skin, that performing often caused. There was no need to rush. 

Food consumed at a normal amount, his cup equally empty, Geralt made to climb the stairs leading to the rooms. Jaskier hadn’t told him which was his, but it didn’t matter. He could track the bard’s sweet scent for miles against the wind. Finding the door to the poet’s room, Geralt rapped his knuckles against the wood. Nervous still, but determined. 

He had one chance at this. Only one. 

He couldn’t mess this up.

“Come in,” Jaskier called, inviting Geralt in. The Witcher entered, closing the door quietly behind him. His lark was wearing the same chemise and breeches he’d performed in, but his doublet, shoes and socks were missing. He’d almost look comfortable, were it not for the furrow of brows gracing his features. 

They stood in silence for a moment; both perhaps expecting the other to speak first. But it wasn’t fair to ask Jaskier to make the first move, not after all the times he’d done it before. This time, it was Geralt’s turn.

“I’m sorry,” the Witcher rumbled, trying his best to keep eye contact; it was easier to do when wanting to intimidate, he found. This, showing vulnerability, being open about his feelings, was an entirely different thing. “For what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Geralt,” Jaskier quietly replied, shaking his head as he sat down on the bed. “You were trying to be kind, and I threw it in your face. I ran away-” 

“Not for that,” the Witcher quickly interrupted. “That’s not what I’m apologizing for. I’m apologizing for all the times  _ before  _ then, when I wasn’t kind.” 

“I don’t understand,” the poet looked up at him, blue eyes round and confused. 

“After we separated,” Geralt started, taking a moment to seat himself in the only chair the room had to offer. “The way you reacted- it made me think about a lot of things. About our.. relationship. I always knew I was causing you pain; I’m not proud to admit it. I knew I wasn’t giving you what you really wanted. That still seeing Yen while bedding you was hurtful. Yet you kept crawling into my bed, and I never refused you. Perhaps I should have.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Jaskier sighed wistfully, elegant fingers running through brown locks as he spoke, pushing them away from the poet’s pretty face. “I knew I could never have all of you, but whatever I could have- well. I wanted it.”

“Because you love me,” Geralt rasped, forcing golden eyes to remain on the bard’s face, taking in his reaction to the words spoken between them. He hated the look of pain on those fine features, the moisture he watched gather in beautiful blue eyes as he waited for a reply.

“Because I love you,” Jaskier confirmed heavily, shoulders hunched; closing himself off from the Witcher, as Geralt himself had done many times before. “I have, for many years. You never mentioned it, so why are we talking about it now?” 

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed, giving himself just a split second to gather his thoughts. “We’re talking about it because it’s become clear to me, this winter, that these feelings are not.. unreciprocated.” 

The bard seemed stunned at the admission, utterly motionless as he stared at the Witcher. 

“You love Yennefer,” Jaskier finally whispered, pale and looking thoroughly shell shocked. As if the very idea of Geralt loving him back was too preposterous to even consider entertaining. 

“I do,” Geralt openly admitted. No sense in hiding it. “But not in the way I thought I did.” 

“That doesn’t make sense!” the bard half shouted, once more shaking his head. “Geralt, all these years you spent chasing after her, running to her whenever you could, no matter how badly she burnt you-”

“Was a desperate attempt to find what was already right in front of me,” the Witcher cut in. Jaskier was spiraling, like he had that day he’d met Margaret for the first time. Now, Geralt knew how to step in. “Jaskier, I need you to look at me, please.” 

Thrown off by the “please”, the poet’s head snapped upwards, panicked gaze honing in on the Witchers face. 

“Thank you,” Geralt rumbled, taking a single step closer. Closing the distance between them, but not touching uninvited. “I need you to take a deep breath for me, then let it out, nice and slow. Please.” 

A split second of hesitation later, his little lark obeyed. Geralt watched as his chest expanded, then flattened on the exhale. 

“Good,” he praised in a quiet rumble; Jaskier had always liked the deeper registers of his voice, Geralt learned early on. “You’re doing good. Can you tell me why you’re upset?”

“I just- it doesn’t make sense,” Jaskier repeated, voice shaking. “Yen is beautiful, and powerful, and I’m just.. me. Jaskier, the bard. You did so much for her, the way you look at her.. Now you’re telling me you love me? I don’t understand how that’s possible.” 

“I know it’s confusing,” the Witcher hummed, considering his options before continuing. “I didn’t realise how I felt for you until I was about to lose you. I spent all winter, trying to understand what- or who- I really wanted. If I could give you what you wanted from me.

Jaskier, I don’t know if I can be what you want, or what you need. But I want to  _ try _ . If you’ll allow it.”

He was met with silence; the bard seemingly frozen as he stared. Tears falling from those long, long lashes as he blinked, running along pale cheeks and down a slender neck. 

“I know this is a lot,” Geralt rumbled quietly. “I have no right to ask you for more patience, for more of your time. If you decided to turn me away, I would not hold it against you. We would still be friends, if you wanted.” 

Still, Jaskier gave no reply. 

“I want us to be more,” Geralt carefully continued. “I want to treat you the way you deserve to be treated. I promise you that things would be different. I’d share no one’s bed but yours. Draw you baths, and rub your legs when they hurt. Every kindness you’ve shown me, I want to return, Jaskier. I want to.. love you.” 

He took another step forward, fighting the increasing urge to grab his crying bard, crush him against his chest, hold him tight until the salty droplets were no more. Sooth his lark as he worked through the Witchers words, so unlike anything he’d ever said before. 

“I can’t-” Jaskier sobbed, arms wrapping around his own chest as he shook and cried. “It’s too much Geralt, I can’t-” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt soothed quietly, “Little lark, may I hold you?” 

“Yes!” the bard keened, almost falling to his knees as he scrambled to get closer. Geralt would have none of that. He launched himself forward, grasping the poet by the shoulders, pulling him up and against his chest. Held him tight as he moved them backwards, sitting down on the bed, carefully moving his bard around until he came to sit on thick things. 

“You’re alright,” He breathed, rocking Jaskier against his chest as the bard wept, large hands rubbing soothing circles against his back. “I know it’s a lot, sweet songbird, but you’re alright. You don’t have to decide now, I can wait. Wait however long it takes.” 

Once more he received no verbal reply, but Geralt didn’t need one. Not now, anyway. All that mattered was calming his lark down, rumbling praise and holding tight. He had no idea how long they sat like this, simply holding each other, breathing in the other’s scent. It wasn’t important. 

Jaskier was here, in his arms, right where he belonged. Where he always should have been, had Geralt not been so intent on denying his own feelings, and chasing the wrong person. 

Finally, the tears seemed to run dry; the bard’s breathing evening out as he calmed. They didn’t speak for a while longer; Geralt feared he’d set off a fresh wave of tears should he say the wrong thing. His lark had so much to take in already, so much to process; perhaps silence was the best he could offer now.

“I want to try,” the poet breathed, words spoken oh so softly. “I don’t know what will happen, I’ve- there was another, like you, that I loved before we met, and he- it didn’t end well.” 

Geralt felt himself tensing, his hold on the bard growing tighter at the mere mention of another man, of pain his bard had suffered- quickly reminding himself that he had no right to feel any of it, and relaxing his hold. 

“But I want to try.” 

A wave of relief washed over the Witcher as he exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Nuzzling his nose into the soft brown locks before him, eyes falling shut. Jaskier wasn’t turning him away. It wasn’t too late. 

He still had a chance. 

“Thank you,” Geralt rumbled as his chest filled with so much affection, so much warmth, he thought it might burst open. “Thank you, Jaskier, little lark.” 

Now, finally free to do what he’d wanted to for far too long, Geralt gently tilted the poet’s head up and back, calloused fingers at his chin, to steal a sweet, linger kiss. 

“Should get some sleep,” he said when they broke apart. “You’re tired, little lark.”

“You’ll stay?” Jaskier asked, hopeful and unbelieving at the same time. “You’ll hold me while I sleep?” 

“I’ll hold you until the end of time, if you want me to,” Geralt vowed, gently maneuvering them to lay on the bed, the Witcher on his back with Jaskier laid out on top. Tugged the blanket out from underneath himself one handed, while the other remained firmly on his songbirds back. 

Once covered, Jaskier fell asleep within seconds; exhausted from the emotional turmoil he’d been forced to undergo at Geralt’s hands. No more. Things would be better now. Jaskier would never again have to wonder his worth. 

Not while Geralt was alive. 


End file.
